


Taboo (It could only be called sublime)

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Series: Kinkterror, 2019 [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Kinkterror, Mild Gore, Murder, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-23 06:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20887814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: (Kinkterror 2019, October 3: Cannibalism)"You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry. You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry. You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry --"Harry is left alone in the Forest of Dean.





	1. Chapter 1

_ "You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry. You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry. You can't conjure food from nothing, Harry --" _

Ten days. Harry had been alone in the tent for ten days.

_ "Ron, wait!" Hermione turned to Harry. "I've -- I've got to go after him, Harry --" _

_ "Just go," Harry nodded, understanding. "I'll be fine." _

_ "We'll be back when we can," she promised, "I'll send a Patronus." _

He ran his fingers over the heavy gold chain of the locket, skin-warmed and vaguely magical to the touch, before dragging his feet over to the kitchen one more time to scrounge for food in the cabinets. Surely there would be something he had overlooked, this time; something he could make edible, to fill his stomach just a little bit --

There was nothing, just like there had been nothing hours ago. Harry leaned against the counter, clutching his head against a dizzy spell. He had run out of even the scraps from which he could make more food: all that was left were herbs, some oil, salt, trace amounts of flour, and an unlimited supply of conjured water. Hell, there wasn’t even enough sugar to duplicate; he’d accidentally used the last of the original sugar without thinking, yesterday, and you couldn’t copy duplicated things a second time, not really.

Harry shivered, despite thorough warming charms embedded in the tent enchantments. He gulped down another glass of water to ease the pain of emptiness in his stomach, rubbing at it while he rested against the countertop. Ironic, that he would have to resort to Dursley survival skills when he was so far removed from that house.

_ Deep breaths, Harry _ . If he could keep calm, keep from exerting more energy, he would be able to get over this round of hunger pains and figure out what to do about them in the long term. Hunger, he long knew, was the most insidious of the body’s needs, and the most formidable. With magic, he could always quench his thirst -- indeed, he’d been able to conjure water wandlessly, straight into his mouth, for as long as he could remember -- and other bodily needs, like sleep and the call of nature, could be ‘solved’ merely by giving in to them. But hunger. Hunger, he could not solve with magic. Could not ‘give in’ to. Could not  _ stop _ , unless he actively ate, and if he had nothing to eat, then his body would begin to eat itself…

He shivered, again, remembering photographs from Muggle history textbooks. Hermione had told him more that she’d learned on the topic, once, when they’d been comparing their Muggle schooling.  _ “Little more than skeletons with skin,” _ according to a firsthand account from the era. Unable to move, much less escape -- 

He closed his eyes, unwilling to think further in that direction. This was only the first day, Harry reminded himself. There would be plenty more, before his friends returned.

Hours passed, and Harry huddled under extra blankets on the sofa, thinking only of food. Ron and Hermione always thought of meals in terms of dishes, plates, bowls, spreads; they didn’t seem to care if food was wasted, and it had grated on Harry to see scraps left over even during the scarcer time they’d been having just prior to the splitting-up.

They’d either not noticed, or chosen to ignore, when Harry ran his finger on the insides of bowls to get the last dregs out; when he gnawed on table scraps; when he licked plates and utensils clean. They wouldn’t have understood then, or now: Harry would eat  _ anything _ he could get his hands on.

_ The second day of his solitude, an otter Patronus emerged from the periphery to say they’d met up with the Weasleys. Ron was recovering, Hermione had laughed. “He’s stuffing his face. We’ll be bringing back lots of things for the tent,” she promised. “Not sure when the return will be.” _

Now, though, he’d exhausted the last of what he could duplicate or make, and it was time to consider his options before he lost focus from hunger again. Harry rested, thinking on it.

It was winter in the Forest of Dean. Whatever was out there that he  _ could _ eat, he would have to forage or hunt. (Didn’t deer eat the bark off of trees, in winter? Could he do that?) But even it something  _ was _ out there, he’d not only have to brave the cold and the wind, he’d have to stay within sight of the tent, or he would lose it in the snow.

He could pack the tent and move -- his friends would find him again, eventually -- and use the Cloak to sneak into a Muggle town, steal from a store, maybe. He could rummage through dustbins outside of restaurants and houses, too. But the enchantments on the tent had to be set every time, and Harry didn’t know them all that well, not enough to be sure he was safe.

If he had more books, more time, he might figure out a way to lure animals  _ to _ the clearing outside the tent. There were supposed to be wild boar in the forest somewhere, he thought. Could he Summon birds out of the sky? But he hadn’t seen anything alive besides the trees lately; the snow was keeping everything away.

Another hour passed, marked by the soft chime of a grandfather clock along one wall of the tent.  _ But then, _ his mind supplied,  _ there is one thing I could lure here and eat. _ If he had… the stomach for it. (Heh.)

Necessity begets invention. Desperation begets ruthlessness.

Harry was desperate.

All he had to do was… break a taboo.

_ On the third day, the Patronus whispered, “They’ve set up a nationwide spell called a Taboo on You-Know-Who’s name. If someone says it, a team of wizards called Snatches Apparates in to capture them. Be careful, Harry.” _

“Tempus,” Harry muttered under his breath. The endless sea of clouds overhead had broken apart in a wide gap to reveal the sky beyond; stars sparkled against stark white hills and narrow, straight tree trunks, and the baleful blue light of the moon cast long shadows over the ground. When Harry raised his eyes to look, his wand informed him it was nearly midnight.

Seated high in the branches of a pine, under the Cloak, Harry withdrew his wand from his pocket, and whispered, “Voldemort.”

Results were immediate and as reported: a half-dozen wizards Apparated onto the snowy forest floor, shooting Stunners out around them in a circle -- but neglected to aim up, just as most wizards tended to. Strategically, they split up to canvass the area for dropped bodies; “no sign of ‘em,” muttered one, annoyed, just as he passed underneath Harry’s tree.

Harry scanned the forest below for the positions of the others. The wizard nearest him had gotten quite separated from the rest; none of the other five were even looking.

He took aim.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Hunger, it seemed, was more than enough to ‘mean it’, for the Killing Curse.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry gazed down at the body lying sprawled in the snow at the base of his tree. He scanned the forest for the other Snatchers, finding them utterly oblivious and still searching through the undergrowth.

If it had come to it, Harry had been ready to fight the other wizards and flee back into the safety of the tent until they gave up looking for him; but the bounty hunters of Voldemort's regime were apparently far from the brightest. Not only had none of them noticed their number dwindle, they didn't bother to regroup before Disapparating at the group leader's call of "False alarm!".

Then, he was alone.

Hunger reminded Harry of his task, now. He wasted no time in levitating the body up and over the snow, through the clearing until it lay before the entrance to the tent instead -- well within the protective wards Hermione had set. Thus positioned, the Snatchers would never find their missing member, even if they returned here later.

He climbed back down from the tree, and crossed the clearing to the tent himself, stepping over the body to open the tent flap and drag it through.

The charmed air inside was a boon on Harry's skin after so much time in the wind. He shed his cloak and the layers he'd worn underneath, leaving them in a pile by his bed.

When, he wondered, was he going to look upon the body and feel revulsion at his actions? When, if ever, would he come to feel remorse?

Any moment now, he reasoned.

...Any moment now.

...Nothing.

His stomach rumbled.

_ The fourth day, Hermione did not send a Patronus. Harry had nearly grown worried enough to send his own -- but they'd agreed he would not outside of an emergency, in case his friends were in uncertain circumstances. _

_ So he'd waited, and dawn had broken, and all the while, Harry clutched the golden body of the Locket, thumbing absently over its smooth reverse face, feeling its slow, steady pulse under his hand. _

With renewed determination brought on by imminent hunger pains, Harry stripped the clothes off of the body and piled them in a corner by the flap of the tent, which looked more like a door from the inside. He rifled through the man's pockets, mostly curious at what he'd find; the wand, removed early on from where a hand still clutched it, was soon joined by a sack of Galleons and Sickles, a pack of wizarding playing cards, and a Muggle switchblade that hadn't been well-maintained. (Most likely stolen from someone else, in turn.)

Out of curiosity more than anything, Harry examined the body for distinguishing features, finding none beyond a rather new-looking Dark Mark. It was the first time Harry was able to examine one directly; he brushed his fingers over it, finding it warm to the touch. It felt no different than the skin around it -- just a tattoo, really.

It didn't matter anyway, he supposed. This was just a body. And, as Harry's stomach rumbled again, pain leaving him clutching at his abdomen, to remind him: meat.

Plenty of it, in fact. Harry grinned weakly.  _ Starvation to surplus in one simple spell. _

He stumbled over to the kitchen for the knives.

_ "We're getting some updates from the Order members in hiding," Ron's voice informed Harry on the sixth day, midway through the morning. "There's a Wireless broadcast going around; Fred and George are in on it." _

_ Harry listened half-heartedly, scraping as much batter out of the bowl he'd been using as possible, licking the spatula clean. The bread he was making wasn't much -- wasn't leavened, so it was more of a dense biscuit -- but it was better than nothing, and flour at least could be duplicated pretty handily with more than a cup of it on hand. _

The contents of the knife drawer, laid out on the table, were not quite up to par for rendering an entire carcass, but Harry suspected some imaginative carving and a few Unbreakable Charms would let him make it with enough physical effort. He sorted through another drawer until he found an apron, and, in afterthought, the rubber gloves they used for doing the dishes, just in case.

He was about to make the first cut on the kitchen floor, but thought better of it just before his blade made contact -- who knew how much blood would come out? Better to use the bathtub. Wasn't that what they did in Muggle films?

So he levitated the body into the bathroom, cast a Scourgify on the tub, and moved it into the bathtub, plugging the drain. Harry returned to the kitchen for the knife he'd left behind.

The first cut he made, on one of the arms, bled sluggishly but continuously for more than a minute, and Harry realized that this must be why deer and other animals were trussed up or hung on hooks: to bleed out. The tent lacked true ceiling beams, however, so Harry improvised, using Levicorpus; then, when slitting the throat was proving too challenging, thought better of it and used Sectumsempra to behead the body entirely. Blood poured steadily out into the tub after that, and Harry took the head with him back to the kitchen, held upside-down so any residual blood wouldn't come out of the cut until he sat it in the sink.

Harry peered down at it there.  _ What can I use a head for, anyway?  _ He had no idea how to cook brain, eye, or tongue -- the Dursleys had not been adventurous in their meal planning, nor had the house-elves -- but the man's cheeks looked meaty enough, he supposed, and even if they weren't, the little bit would be enough to fill his stomach for a while.

The basics of cooking red meats were largely the same no matter what species, so Harry could improvise plenty enough for this. He took the oil, flour, salt, and herbs out of the cabinet, duplicating everything twice so he wouldn't run out, and returned the originals to the cabinet so he wouldn't accidentally use any of them up. Then, wielding a small serrated knife in one hand, and holding the head with the other, he dug into the cheeks, blade scraping against the teeth several times while he worked.

It took considerable effort, but soon two relatively round chunks, a bit more than bite-size, sat on the counter, red pooling where they sat. Harry left the rest of the head in the sink to deal with later -- he'd probably have to Vanish it, or something -- and set to work cutting the skin away, as well as a layer of yellowish fat underneath. Harry wrinkled his nose at the weird texture, but wondered if he might be able to use it as lard; did lard come from a specific area on the body? Funny how little he really knew.

Finally, there was meat. Harry washed his hands with a quick spell, not keen on messing with the sink at the moment, then grabbed another knife to make thin slices of the morsels. These slices he dredged in flour, lining them up on a plate, before sprinkling with salt and pepper.

_ Garlic would have made this great, _ Harry realized as he turned to the stovetop, heating up oil in a frying pan. He could imagine all too clearly the wonderful scent of garlic on the stove, and the flavor it would impart. But the other herbs would have to do, for now. Harry waited for the oil to simmer, then reached for the first few slices, tossing in rosemary and thyme right after. A minute on each side, and the batch was done; Harry repeated it with the rest, setting the finished meat on another plate.

The smell made his mouth water; how long had it been since he'd eaten, much less eaten something this rich? His tongue fluttered in his mouth, anticipating; when, finally, twelve slices of pan-seared cheek were arranged on the plate, Harry didn't even bother with a fork, picking the first glistening morsel up with his fingers and bringing it to his lips.

_ The seventh day, Ron's terrier Patronus appeared again. "Hermione's resting," he said. "Mum says she's exhausted herself casting those protective charms on the tent so much." _

_ The recounting of meals at the Burrow -- or wherever Ron's family currently was -- left Harry's stomach growling again, and he wished he could have gone with them, given that he was gnawing on already-stale bread, instead. _

It was... it was... oh Merlin, it was  _ sublime _ . Harry moaned around the mouthful, reaching for the next piece before he'd even finished the first. He shuddered in exultation, eyes rolling back in his head, at the way the meat just  _ fell apart _ in his teeth. It was like pork, but sweeter; he'd thought it would be more like beef, and had seasoned accordingly, but it worked anyway, just salted and spiced enough.

He felt the flavor all the way to his toes, head lolling back in the chair. It was just _ so good. _

Harry supposed he must make quite a picture, like this -- eyes half-lidded in pleasure, loose-limbed and relaxed and  _ full _ for the first time in much longer than the span of his solitude. His plate was empty, but, Harry thought, looking toward the bathroom, there was  _ much more where it came from. _

Before he could fall asleep at the table, Harry pushed himself back up to his feet and cleaned the kitchen counter. He set the head in a bowl to catch any extra blood that might leak out, with a Preservation Charm against it going bad, and stuffed it in an otherwise-empty cabinet; drifting sleepily into the bathroom, he did the same for the rest of the carcass, using a bit of conjured rope to tie the second ankle up beside the first in case any blood was in there. A fair amount of it had pooled in the bathtub already; Harry wished he knew how to make black pudding. He'd end up wasting a lot, if he didn't find a good cookbook on the tent shelves.

His eyelids were beginning to close all on their own, now. Harry made his way almost drunkenly over to his bed, barely remembering to take his clothes (and apron) off before he got in. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out, a deep and dreamless sleep overtaking him that for once, lasted the entire night.

_ "We're going to be on Potterwatch -- Fred 'n George's radio show -- tonight," Ron told him on the eighth day. Harry was in the middle of making caramel from a batch of sugar he would later realize he'd forgotten to duplicate, in his moment of inspiration; hearing the name of the radio show, he nearly burnt the caramel. _

A Patronus was waiting for Harry when he woke up, this time; he stretched, yawning, and eventually turned his focus on the terrier, smiling sleepily at it. "Go on," he chuckled, "thanks for waiting."

Ron's voice in the message sounded tired, like he'd sent it early in the morning. Harry wondered how long the Patronus had been waiting for him to wake up. "Hey, mate," he said, "'Mione wants me to tell you to tell us that... what did you say, again?" it sounded like Ron had turned away, to ask Hermione. "Ah, right, right. Tell us if you've got enough to eat, we can come back sooner if you need stuff, otherwise we're looking at another week or so."

Harry laughed, and laughed. He clutched at his stomach, this time not from hunger, and laughed until his eyes were watering and his chest had gone tight. Wheezing, he caught his breath on the side of the bed, fumbling for his wand.

"To Hermione," he informed the stag. "'I've got more than enough. Managed to catch a deer that wandered through the clearing yesterday." The lie rolled off his tongue as easily as the meat yesterday had gone down his throat. "It'll take me ages to eat it all. Take your time coming back."

He grinned as the stag bounded away into the aether. A week would be more than enough time to process everything; once he got rid of the more identifying parts, and cut it all up, no one would be the wiser to what he'd done.

In the meantime, he would savor every part of what he'd managed to 'catch'.

As if on cue, his stomach rumbled.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Breaking More Taboos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883503) by [Destiny_Of_A_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiny_Of_A_Dragon/pseuds/Destiny_Of_A_Dragon)


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